


Simple Association

by SolarMorrigan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Blood, Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Sappy Ending, but also fluff, one sex happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 00:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15674265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: “Just say the first word that pops into your head. I might say “quartermaster,” and you might say…”“Young.”No one asks, but Bond has thoughts on the new quartermaster





	Simple Association

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory fic inspired by the word association bit in Skyfall. After rewatching a few months ago, I started wondering what Bond's response would have been if asked (not that he'd met Q yet, but whatever) and then thought about how it would have to change as he got to know Q and then this happened

Bond watches his new quartermaster leave the gallery. His stride is smooth and confident, though contained and cautious. Unobtrusive. He glides from the room, unremarkable and unnoticed.

The attaché case weighs heavily in Bond’s coat.

More than a surprise, the new quartermaster feels like an insult. Surely he’s competent, and certainly clever; he has a sharp tongue that Bond had enjoyed despite himself. But, Christ, he’s just a child.

Green, wet behind the ears, _new_.

How much experience can he really have? His handling of equipment and documents had been matter-of-fact, all neat and tidy, but practice doesn’t always mean know-how.

Still, M approves of him. He wouldn’t be Q if she didn’t.

M approves and Bond still trusts M and so, by extension, he must trust Q. At least a bit.

Bond shakes his head. He’ll accept this new Q. He’ll allow the man (the boy, really, isn’t he?) to do his job and see where it goes. He could even… appreciate him, eventually. Q, with his sharp eyes and quick tongue.

But, _Christ_ , he’s just so…

(“Just say the first word that pops into your head. I might say “Quartermaster,” and you might say…”

“ _Young.")_

-/-/-

Bond resists the urge to pull his earpiece. Instead, he grimaces and hopes the nearby security cameras are picking up his distaste.

“ _Could you not have followed the plan, 007? It was simple.”_ Q’s voice snips away in his ear.

“Apologies, Q. Next time I’ll just let the terrorist kill me.” Bond spares not a glance towards the man he’s shot far ahead of schedule, “But since I’m still alive, be a dear and find me an exit, would you?”

“ _Lord knows_ how _you’re still alive, with all this shit you pull_.” Q’s frown is evident in his voice, but the clicking of keys also comes through faintly, “ _The door on the far wall is open. Security measures are disabled. Go quickly_.”

“Thought I might take a leisurely stroll, actually.” Bond replies as he hastens to leave the room and, ideally, the building before his presence is noticed.

Q huffs. “ _I don’t suppose you’d find the time to pick up your misplaced weapon while you’re out and about?_ ”

This again. “I would, only I’m rather keen to leave before someone else comes to kill me.” Bond sneers.

“ _Typical_.” Q snipes in return, “ _Take the next left, it will lead you to the service stairs._ ”

And there is the reason Bond hasn’t yet abandoned the voice in his ear: Q natters and picks and prods, but he _helps_.

Somehow, Bond thinks that might be worse.

If Q were nothing but a nag and a useless weight, Bond could drop his connection without a care. Instead, he finds Q and his input to be of value.

 “ _The stairs lead to the back exit, and that will lead you to an alley opening into the market. Suppose you can make it that far without any scenes of ultraviolence?_ ”

Most of the time.

“I’ll do my best.” Bond grits, and yanks his earpiece as soon as he hits the market street.

Halfway across the world, Bond knows Q’s soft voice is curling around harsh swears, bitter and biting and frustrated. Bond pockets the earpiece. He feels this is a great improvement over his behavior in the past.

He doesn’t want to completely sever his connection to Q, he finds, but he does want the man out of his ear.

Useful, certainly, and yet he’s still a little–

(“Quartermaster.”

“ _Irritation.")_

-/-/-

Bond watches, practically starry-eyed, as Q pulls half a dozen small charges from various pockets on his person.

“I thought you didn’t go in for this sort of thing anymore?”

Q pauses in his placement of the miniature explosives around the front wall of the room, taking a moment to remember what it is Bond’s referencing. “Do any of these look like pens to you?” He asks at last, “These are simple and functional. No frivolous, mundane disguise.”

“What is their simple function, then?” Bond asks; he already knows, but he’s curious about Q’s answer.

“I should think that was obvious, 007.” Q places the last charge and turns back to Bond, bright with contained enthusiasm and buzzing with adrenaline, “Their function is to blow shit up.”

That coaxes a huff of surprised amusement from Bond, even as he is calculating their escape route. He notes that each explosive has been expertly placed, exploiting weak points in the architecture and the cracks of the abandoned building they’ve found themselves cooped up in. Neat, clean, functional.

Perfection.

“Ready to go?” He’s already heading to the back window as he asks, expecting—trusting—Q to follow.

The sound of their pursuers rushing through the decrepit building meets their ears, and Q is right beside Bond. He is ushered onto the fire escape first and Bond is right behind him.

“You’ve been holding out on me, then.” Bond insists as they make their way to the ground.

“None of your missions thus far have required explosives.” Q’s breathing is less steady than Bond’s, but more even than Bond would have expected, “When you’re sent to detonate something, I’ll equip you with the appropriate means to do so.”

Q reaches the end of the fire escape and hits the ground, stands steadily as Bond drops down beside him. “Nothing about this mission indicated the need for detonations.” Bond points out.

“Well,” Is all Q gets out before Bond is pulling him along.

Sheltering behind the next building over, Q begins to fiddle with his watch. “It was perhaps wishful thinking on my part.” He admits, “But they let me out of the basement so rarely, I couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

The ground rocks, rubble flies, fire licks up at the sky.

Q grins.

It’s an understated thing, but expresses his pleasure in the success of his equipment, in the culmination of their efforts, in the bright inferno consuming the building he’s just blown up.

Pleasure is an exceptional look on Q, Bond decides.

He sidles up beside Q and wraps a heavy hand around his waist, ostensibly leading Q from the scene of the blast. “Just how much fun are you looking to have?” He leans in to murmur in Q’s ear.

Q cuts a sharp look at Bond, but his interest shines through, bright and hot. “I suppose we’ll see.”

Muscles tremble beneath Bond’s hand, tense and ready, excited and intrigued, and Bond squeezes.

(“Quartermaster.”

“ _Explosion.")_

-/-/-

The expensive mattress doesn’t so much as creak beneath them as Bond leans up to take a kiss from Q’s lips, sharp and wet and needful. He has two fingers pressed into Q, slick and pushing at the tight muscle as it squeezes around him, draws him in and keeps him there. Bond spreads his fingers apart and Q whines.

“Another.” He gasps, voice gone pleasantly rough, pleading.

It’s still a tight fit, sooner than Bond would think to push a third finger in, but there is nothing yielding about Q; nothing about him suggests he will accept anything less than compliance from Bond, even now, flushed and strung out and stretched out wanting beneath him. Bond gives him another finger and Q gives a low cry. He pushes back against Bond’s hand, wordlessly demanding everything Bond will give him.

Bond obliges, happily so, scraping his teeth down the length of Q’s neck, tasting the hollows of his sharp collarbones, twisting his fingers in Q’s arse until the man is panting, bucking, clutching at the back of Bond’s neck.

“Bond–” Q breaks off, voice pitched to crack when Bond presses deep, so his fingers are buried right to the knuckle and he can nudge his thumb up to Q’s perineum, “ _Fuck!”_

And shortly thereafter, Bond is pushing into Q in short, sharp thrusts while Q grips unforgiving fingertip bruises into the meat of Bond’s arms and shoulders. He pauses when his hips finally meet Q’s, looks down and appreciates the view, and realizes his earlier assessment was quite right: there is nothing yielding about Q. He is composed of the hard angles of bone and sinew, ribs jutting out uniformly, thighs firm beneath Bond’s hands, hips sharp points on either side of his hard prick, and yet–

Yet as Bond fucks him quick and hard (and _harder,_ _oh fuck, Bond, harder_ ), there is something about him that almost blurs around the edges. It’s the frizz of his hair on the pillow and the desirous curve of his spine and the kiss that is almost gentle in comparison to the way his nails have been clawing down Bond’s back and the way his voice curls around a wordless cry when he comes with Bond’s hand on his cock and Bond’s cock in his arse. There’s something impossibly and terribly…

(“Quartermaster”

_“Soft.”)_

-/-/-

Of course Q has outlawed live weapons on the main floor of Q branch, and of course Bond only has an improbably damaged Walther to return this time around, and of course the twit who’s taken the boffins hostage is smart enough to hold a decidedly loaded gun to Q’s head (or stupid enough to hold a loaded gun to Q’s head, because he’s going to regret having done that once Bond gets his hands on him).

It’s one of the technicians—of course it is—disgruntled over something or other, or maybe in search of money, or possibly secrets; Bond isn’t paying a lot of attention to the spiel. He’s heard enough villainous monologues to last lifetimes; he’s just waiting for his opening, at which point he’ll damage the traitor irreparably. He doesn’t even really want to kill the technician so much as illustrate why threatening Q was an incredibly poor decision.

For his part, Q looks caught somewhere between righteous indignation and anxiety, as if at any moment he is equally likely to attempt to rip the tech’s throat out or start hyperventilating. Bond really hopes he doesn’t do either – and he doesn’t, quite.

Instead, someone’s computer starts making a racket (an agent’s distress signal, Bond later learns) and, while the technician is briefly distracted by the noise (an ingrained response, even now that he’s betrayed them all), Q shoves the gun away, pulls a pen from his pocket, and stabs it, teeth bared, into the technician’s neck.

The technician goes down screaming. It seems excessive; Bond has stabbed people in the neck before and they’d gone down with less drama. When the tech continues to scream and begins to convulse, Bond realizes Q likely hadn’t stabbed him with just any pen, and perhaps Q had taken more inspiration from his conversations with Bond than he’d let on. “I suppose mundane disguises have their uses.” He remarks as Q backs out of the range of the dying technician’s flailing limbs.

Many of the other Q branch members look halfway to ill, turning various shades of unhealthy colors and either looking away or training their eyes on the spectacle with a morbid inability to do otherwise. Q is pale and his breathing has gone a bit shallow, but his face is arranged into something so immovable and hateful that, had the look been directed at him, Bond might have had the good sense to be intimidated.

“We designed that toxin to act more quickly than this.” The last of the technician’s screams died as he did, “Pity.”

The words are practically glacial, and Bond remembers once, twice before Q had been caught unawares by an attack on home soil, in his own base, and remembers how tightly Q spoke of it, how ruthlessly he pulled things into line in the aftermath, and remembers that just as he can be both 007 and James Bond, there must be something like two sides to Q, as well.

There is the Q Bond is growing unrepentantly fond of, full of half-hidden smiles and enthusiasm and cleverness, the Q Bond had held in his bed, had sunk into, had peppered with laughing kisses.

The Q beside him holds no shadow of that man; the Q beside him is nothing but hard and harsh and–

(“Quartermaster”

_“Cold.”)_

-/-/-

Q rouses when Bond reaches out to check for a pulse. There is a panicked moment of thrashing and gasping, Q too far gone to recognize Bond at first glance (or second or third, hindered without his glasses and by the pain and by whatever they had kept sedating him with), and Bond does his best to still him with gentle hands and firm words lest he do further damage to himself.

“ _James_.” Q chokes out, and Bond isn’t sure if Q’s finally recognized him or if he’s calling out for him regardless, isn’t sure which hurts more, and reaches out to smooth a hand through dark, matted hair.

“I’m here, Q. Right here. We’re getting you out.” Bond assures him, voice steady and even and everything he hopes Q needs to hear right now, “I’m here.”

Q gasps again, faces Bond but doesn’t quite focus on him. It’s hard to tell what’s a wound and what’s covered in the general mess that’s coating Q, dirt and grime and– Bond’s long past squeamish, anyway, doesn’t balk at the idea of any of it, and brushes away the tears running slick new trails down Q’s cheeks. Medical will be there any minute, a few steps behind the agents storming the castle.

“I didn’t–” Q cuts off, choking on the dryness of his throat, his voice rasping urgently out around it, “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t. Didn’t give them– _I didn’t._ ”

Bond hushes him, drawing him as close as he dares given his injuries. “I know. I know you didn’t. You did so well.” The words taste so bitter in Bond’s mouth, nearly overpowering the taint of iron sticking thick in his throat.

Q draws in a reedy breath, makes another little choking noise, and oh, maybe it’s more than just dryness he’s choking on, and there’s just so much–

Medics are there suddenly, pushing Bond out of the way none-to-gently, because he’s not the one who was captured this time, tortured, lying in–

(“Quartermaster.”

_“Blood.”)_

-/-/-

They hadn’t had him very long, not in the grand scheme of things. Agents had been captured and held for months and months before being recovered ( _if_ they were recovered), and Q’s three days is almost nothing in comparison. Bond knows this. He knows.

But it’s hard to reconcile the information when he sees Q swallowed up by his hospital bed, pale and insubstantial amongst the sheets and bandages and wires, his dark hair the only shock of color in the whole mess.

Three days isn’t long, but it is much, much too long.

Bond sits by Q and holds his hand, bold as brass, unashamed and ready to put up a fight.

No one argues with him. He suspects strings were pulled so that he could stay past visiting hours (or so that he could stay at all, despite having no legal relation to Q), but he isn’t going to ask who’s responsible. He’s going to sit and wait and wait and wait for Q to open his eyes and look at him and know that Bond is there and that he’s home again, that they retrieved him and that he’s–

Well. He’ll hardly be alright. Not at first. There had been the bleeding and the broken bones and the abused muscles and the _bleeding_. There had been surgery. But he’s secure now. And Bond will stay until Q wakes so he can assure him, because it’s only right, isn’t it?

Because Q is always there for Bond. There in his ear and in the weapons he wields and the information he uses – he’s there to keep Bond from harm, to help him come home, and now Bond will repay the favor. It’s only right.

When Q does wake, it’s not so much with a start as it is with a groggy sort of struggling in the bed, unable to really fight against the wires and bandages and _pain_ , and one of the monitors registers a spike in heartrate and then Bond is there, his hands framing Q’s face, soothing him and assuring him: “I’ve got you. You’re alright. I’m here.”

He hopes it’s as reassuring as he thinks it is. Maybe Bond had fallen down on the job (maybe it hadn’t been his job to begin with, maybe it _should have been_ ), but he's here now, he has Q, he's there and he is going to make sure, make absolutely sure, just as Q does for him, that Q is–

(“Quartermaster.”

_“Safe.”)_

-/-/-

There are scars peppering the fine canvas of Q’s skin. Now they match, Bond thinks, lingering over the dark snarl of healed-over scrape on Q’s ribs. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing.

Q’s hand rests on the back of Bond’s head, cards through his hair, and when Bond looks up, Q is smiling gently down at him. “Done brooding?”

“I’m not _brooding_.” Bond protests, pressing a kiss to the scar and moving up Q’s chest, “I’m appreciating.”

“Brooding.” Q insists, “Thinking too much. I want you here with me.”

Bond reaches Q’s neck and sucks a kiss into the elegant curve of it, enjoying the slight catch of Q’s breath. “I am here. I’m always with you.”

That isn’t true, really. Bond still goes on missions. Q still works too many hours. Post recovery, they returned to their lives and still don’t see each other as often as they’d like. But here, wrapped in sheets and surrounded by a landscape of pillows and duvet, the world feels soft and close and easy.

Here, there is nothing but the rasp of morning-grown stubble, the silk of Q’s hair under Bond’s fingers, the comforting press of Q’s palms into Bond’s back, the low murmur of voices as they talk about nothing.

It’s a surprise, this thing they’ve crafted together, and Bond unabashedly, unreservedly, unrepentantly adores it. He leans up to press their foreheads together, the tips of their noses brushing, and puts his smile close to Q’s own. “This is where I want to be. Right here with you, so we can be…”

(“Quartermaster.”

“ _Us.")_


End file.
